


The Phantom Shadow

by miladys-winter (lykxxn)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Post-Season/Series 01, Pre-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7652203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/miladys-winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Phantom Shadow. The very name brings chills to the people of Paris. They tell horror stories about the Phantom, who murders people in their sleep for coin.<br/>But if they knew the name behind the Phantom, they would tell a very different story indeed. They would tell one of betrayal, grief, love and loss.<br/>This is the story told here. This is the story of the Phantom Shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Le Fantôme Ombre

Paris is a disgusting city. It is riddled with lice and littered with criminals. So it is only fitting that I should be here. I have no money, apart from five deniers. I had ten before I bought a drink. That’s where I am now; sat in the corner of the inn, with my hood pulled above my head. They know me as the Phantom Shadow here. In Paris, I am notorious.

I am an assassin. Many hire me to kill when they are too cowardly to do it themselves. I have murdered unsuspecting husbands for abused wives. I have murdered frightened wives for cruel husbands. Then they pay me, and my pouch becomes full to the brim with coins. After I have killed a few people, I lay low for a while and spend my livres on somewhere to sleep for a few nights.

I do not wish to draw attention to myself. It seems some people have other ideas.

The door to the inn opens, and four pairs of boots enter. ‘I’m seekin’ the Phantom Shadow,’ announces a booming voice.

Snarling, I get to my feet. Secrecy is apparently out of the window. ‘And you have found him! What is it you want?’ Keeping my hood up, I approach the four men, my glass still in my hand.

Musketeers. The very sight of them makes my skin crawl. My free hand reaches for the dagger in my belt, ready to attack. _Rule number one: always be prepared._

‘Treville, Captain of the Musketeers, wishes to see you,’ says another. This Musketeer looks older and wearier than the others. ‘We are to take you to the Garrison immediately.’

‘I will not go anywhere with you,’ I bite out a reply. ‘You will leave and I will go to your Garrison alone. I do not need an escort.’

The dark-skinned Musketeer scoffs. ‘And how do we know you will come?’ he asks in his booming voice.

Slowly, I take the dagger from my belt and point it towards him. ‘Take this,’ I say. ‘When I leave the Garrison, you will return it to me. If I do not come, you are welcome to keep it.’

The Musketeer is wary, but he takes the dagger. ‘Very well,’ he says, and he and his three companions leave the inn. I take a drink of the alcohol and grimace. Disgusting. Still, I stay to finish the glass before I even bother making my way to the Garrison.

Blending in with the Parisians is easy when you know how to act. _Rule number two: keep your head down and don’t talk to anyone._

I don’t often steal – people are poor here and there is no enjoyment in taking money from those who need it – but I am low on funds so I pocket four sous from unsuspecting market customers. I make it to the Garrison a little quicker than I expect – I hoped I’d be able to make them wait – and I stand inconspicuously in the archway, watching as one of the Musketeers I encountered at the inn walks across a wooden platform and then down the stairs.

I step carefully out of the shadows. ‘Is this Treville’s office?’

There is a reason I am called the Phantom.

The Musketeer looks more than a little surprised to see me. His dark eyes widen, and his mouth forms a small _o_. He seems speechless for a few moments, and then says bluntly, ‘I didn’t expect you to come.’

‘Well, I’m here,’ I snap in reply, ‘now is that Treville’s office or not?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, _monsieur_!’

‘Very good,’ I say, and storm past the Musketeer. I turn Treville’s doorknob silently and step into the room.

‘The Phantom Shadow,’ greets Treville without looking from the papers on his desk. ‘You have made quite a name for yourself.’

‘I am aware,’ I reply irritably. What is it this man wants?

‘I must ask a favour of you,’ he says, turning over one paper and dipping his quill into the open ink bottle to his right. ‘I would like you to accompany my Musketeers on a mission to Orléans. There is a revolt the King would like to be quelled.’

I snort. ‘And what makes you think I am going to go on any missions? I am not one of your Musketeers and I will not do as you tell me like some obedient schoolchild. If you want to make use of me, you will have to try harder than that.’

Treville frowns, puts down his quill, and looks up. Ink drips onto the paper. ‘You will, of course, be rewarded for this work. I will provide you with a roof over your head, as well as hot food, for a month here at the Garrison. There will be no price for you, good sir.’

‘Nothing about me is good, Treville,’ I reply, narrowing my eyes at the Captain. I should reject his offer. The Musketeers do not like me. They do not trust me. There are not many people who trust me here. But I am tempted; if I cannot find anyone in need of an assassin, then I do not earn any money, and I am almost penniless. As easy as it is for me to steal, I will not become a thief to get by. ‘We have a deal, Captain. When do we ride?’

‘Tomorrow morning,’ answers Treville. He rises from his seat and says, ‘Let me introduce you to the Musketeers who will be accompanying you … although I am sure you have already met them.’

I follow him silently into the courtyard, where I am re-introduced to the Musketeers who ruined my day at the inn. Wonderful.

The dark-skinned man is named Porthos, and his older, wearier companion is named Athos. The Musketeer I surprised is called Aramis. And then there is the youngest, newest Musketeer. I cannot help but stare. I should not recognise him, but I do. My hands are shaking. It cannot be …

I try to forget about him. But all night I toss and turn, thinking about the young d’Artagnan. Twenty years and I have not forgotten. I merely pushed it to the back of my mind all these years. But the name … it has to be him.

I get barely any sleep that night, and am exhausted when I finally get on a horse. I amble silently after the four Musketeers, and it is only when we are out of Paris that somebody talks to me.

‘What’s your name?’ asks Aramis. ‘Apart from the Phantom Shadow, of course.’

‘As if I’d tell you that,’ I say. The horse whinnies. I do not see the point to riding. Things are much easier on foot. ‘Would you tell me yours? I know it isn’t Aramis.’

‘Touché,’ he murmurs, and I smile in satisfaction.

There is another question, this time from d’Artagnan. ‘Won’t you take your hood off? Or must you always remain secretive?’

‘Very well,’ I say before I can stop myself. I am weak. I cannot say no to him. The hood comes down, revealing my dark hair and soft brown eyes. My appearance contradicts who I am supposed to be. There is too much kindness in eyes that have seen so much cruelty. ‘And yes, I must always remain secretive. It may not be obvious to you, but there are people who would kill me if they knew who I was.’

‘Las’ time I checked, people wanted to kill you anyway,’ says Porthos gruffly.

I do not reply. It is best that I keep quiet. Once this job is over, I don’t have to have anything to do with these Musketeers. I don’t have to speak to them anymore. They are far too intrusive and curious. But I see why. _Rule number three: never be satisfied until you know all the answers._

Orléans seems years away from Paris, but I know what a long journey truly feels like. Still, I don’t say no when Athos suggests a break. We dismount and sit in the shade of a large oak tree. I take a well-needed drink of water. Aramis takes off his hat and then, to my surprise, his shirt. I quickly look away, but it would be wrong not to admit that I’m a little bit curious, so I turn my gaze to him.

My face flushes and I urgently pull my hood back over my head. He is deeply muscular, making him look even more attractive than he already is. He is Spanish. The fact is on the forefront of my mind. If our lives had been different, I could have married him.

But here I am. I’m stuck on a mission with some obnoxious Musketeers, d’Artagnan knows nothing of me, and my life feels like eternal Hell.

Really, it can’t get any worse than this.


	2. Les Quatre Sœurs

We ride for a few more hours until the sun is orange and plunges deep into the surrounding hills. We dismount close to a river, where Athos and Porthos go to catch fish. Aramis sets up camp and d’Artagnan takes the horses in order to take off their saddles. He is a natural. It’s unsurprising, given where he grew up. But I can’t help but to watch his every movement; I lavish every moment I get to lay my eyes on him.

In the end, I help Aramis start a fire. A beaded crucifix hangs from his neck and I wonder whether he has a wife at home, diligently waiting for his return. Perhaps he has children who cling to his legs when he is at home.

‘So, what do we call you?’ Aramis’s voice shakes me from my thoughts. ‘We can’t just call you the Phantom.’

I take a breath. ‘Jeannot de Sauveterre,’ I say as Aramis finally lights a flame. _Rule number four: never tell anyone the whole truth._

‘Aha!’ The fire crackles and Aramis smiles triumphantly. He looks so wonderful when he smiles. It’s like he holds all the happiness in the world. Something I can never have.

Athos and Porthos have caught plenty of fish for us. ‘I can cook that for you,’ I say.

I freeze. What have I just offered to do? I never do anything for anyone else unless it benefits me. I am not a _nice_ person.

The Musketeers look between one another, slightly amused. ‘We’ll cook it ourselves, thanks,’ says Porthos, picking up a fish and stabbing it with a stick to cook it over the fire.

‘Then _I’ll_ be cooking my own fish,’ I reply. I don’t trust these Musketeers. For all I know this could be an elaborate plot to poison me. There are too many people who want me dead in this world. _Rule number five: trust nobody._

I want to cook d’Artagnan’s; I want to make sure what he’s eating is cooked through and won’t make him ill, but he doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t recognise nor remember me. Neither of us trust each other, and that thought alone hurts me more than I could ever imagine.

I will have to trust that the Musketeers will take care of d’Artagnan.

The fish tastes good and clean. I have eaten bad food before, so the thought of it doesn’t bother me too much, but I am with four people I don’t know and I refuse to trust any of them. The worry that I could be stabbed in the back by any of them does nothing to soothe the anxiety rising in my chest. With that in mind, I realise I have to get away from them, if only for a little while.

I go down to the river and take off my boots. I sit down on the bank and dip my feet into the water. How did I end up _here_? What did I ever do to deserve this? Is this God’s punishment? Is He trying to show me the consequences of my actions twenty years ago? Doesn’t He know I had no control over what happened? Or did He make all of this happen? Is it His fault I am here?

I don’t know what to believe or how to feel.

Sighing, I pull my feet from the river and stand up. I pick up my boots and return to the small camp. The fire is roaring, and Porthos, Aramis, Athos and d’Artagnan are sat around it. They look so happy.

Guilt settles deep in my stomach, much to my confusion. I have ruined many lives over the years. Why should I be guilty about disturbing theirs?

‘Jeannot! Join us!’ It is Aramis. God bless his soul. He thinks that I can be won over. I will play his game, though. So I sit by the fire, in between Athos and Aramis.

‘So, you’re the Phantom Shadow, right …’ says Porthos. I raise my eyebrows. Where is this conversation going? ‘You’re goin’ ter tell us some stories, right?’

I frown and fold my arms. After the deed is done, it’s never spoken of again. And here the Musketeers are, wanting me to tear up the past. I am about to refuse, but I glance at d’Artagnan and see the wonder in his wide eyes. ‘All right,’ I say. ‘The year was sixteen-ten—’

‘That’s the year I was born!’ says d’Artagnan excitedly.

Yes, d’Artagnan, I know.

‘Are you going to let me tell the story or not?’ I reply, irritation seeping into my tone. ‘All right. Good. The year was sixteen-ten. Henry IV was still on the throne. Deep in the countryside lived a family of five; a mother and four daughters. The oldest daughter was fifteen, and her sisters were twelve, eight, and six.’

‘What were their names?’ asks Athos.

I wave a hand in his direction. ‘Names are worth nothing to me. I do not remember them. Anyway, the four sisters were playing near the town square, as usual. The oldest sister told her younger sisters to hurry home … she didn’t want them to see the daily hangings in the square. And her sisters did as they were told, and the oldest sister waited a while because she liked to visit the bakery and talk to the boy she liked. So she … she did that. And then she decided she should go home. The only way she could get home was through the square, so she prayed to God that they weren’t hanging anyone today. But when she reached the square, she saw her three younger sisters at the gallows … they were tied up, the nooses almost around their necks. There was a tall blond man ready to pull the lever … she shouted and shouted, but nobody heard her. She could do nothing but watch as her little sisters were hanged. And then the blond man yelled, “She’s one of them! Get her!” She tried to run but the guards were faster, and they grabbed her and took her over to the man …’

‘So what happened then?’ asks Aramis. ‘Did he hang her, too?’

‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘He took her somewhere she’d never been before, and he did horrible things to her—’

‘Like what?’ asks Athos.

I ignore him. ‘And when he was done, he let her go. She thought she was free, so she went back home to her mother, wondering if she’d witnessed or heard about the hanging. But when she got home … there was no home. Her house had been burnt to ashes.’

I stop. Slowly I get up and move so I’m nowhere near the four Musketeers.

‘What happened then?’ asks d’Artagnan.

‘I don’t know,’ I snap. ‘She was alone for the rest of her life. That’s it.’

‘But there has to be something,’ insists the youngest Musketeer.

I shake my head. ‘There is _nothing_. The girl is an orphan. She’s homeless. She goes on the run. That’s all there is to it.’

‘Aha! So there is _something_!’ exclaims Aramis. ‘You said she goes on the run! So what happens then?’

‘Nothing happens!’ I snarl. My hands clench into fists. ‘The story ends! That’s it!’

There is disappointment in Aramis’s face when I look back. His face is highlighted in orange and his eyes are sad. ‘All right then,’ he says softly. ‘It was a good story is all.’

I scoff. ‘Nothing about that story was good. It’s a horrible story. The girl’s family died. She ended up alone with nobody she could love or even trust.’

‘If you don’t like it, then why not change the ending?’ asks d’Artagnan. It is such an innocent question that I laugh softly.

‘I can’t. I can’t change the way that story ends. Not _that_ one, at least.’ Not all stories have happy endings. I would know.

The four Musketeers talk about something else; they change the subject to something about Orléans. I’m not really listening, and I feel exhaustion take over.

* * *

I wake up sometime just after dawn. D’Artagnan is asleep by the burnt-out fire. His face is innocent and peaceful, and I smile to myself. Standing over him, I brush a hair from his face. Athos and Porthos are also asleep, but I don’t pay any attention to them. I go down to the river, and take off my cloak. I need to wash, and there’s no better time to do it than when everyone’s asleep. I unbutton my dark green doublet and cast that aside on top of my cloak. Then I pull my shirt over my head. I gingerly touch the bindings around my chest. It feels a little sore, but that’s to be expected. I’m usually alone and free to take the bindings off when I sleep, but there was no way I could do it last night.

I undo the bindings, and clutch the fabric in my hand. Slowly, I lower myself into the water to bathe. I don’t bother with taking my breeches off; it’s already hot and I predict by midday it will be much hotter. Maybe wearing wet breeches will cool me down. I let out a gasp as the cold water touches my breasts. I adjust to the temperature of the water, and get out after a while so that I can dry off.

‘Argh!’ The yell comes from behind me. ‘I didn’t know you were a woman!’

I turn swiftly around. Aramis is frozen in surprise, eyes wide. ‘You never bothered to ask,’ I retort. My face is calm, but inside I am panicking. He _knows_. Only one person has ever found out, and that man is now lying ten feet under somewhere in Poitiers. My hands automatically reach for a weapon, but then I realise I have left my belt back at the camp.

I couldn’t kill Aramis anyway. If I killed him, I’d have to kill the other three, and as good an assassin as I am, I’m no match for three Musketeers.

I am weak. If it came down to d’Artagnan, I could never kill him. I would be merciful.

So I stop fumbling for a weapon that isn’t there, and look at Aramis, who seems to be more than a little embarrassed. ‘What’re you going to do about it?’ I ask warily.

Aramis frowns. ‘Whatever you’re doing is your business, not mine,’ he says carefully. ‘I haven’t seen you. Now please could you put some clothes on?’

I realise I’m practically shaking my breasts at him. Sighing, I begin to wrap the bindings around my chest. ‘Breathe a word of this to any of your little friends and you all die,’ I hiss. ‘I mean it.’

Aramis laughs, almost mockingly. I narrow my eyes. ‘It’s four against one, Sauveterre. You’re outnumbered.’ But he leaves anyway.

I finish putting on my clothes, and pull my hood further over my face. The moment I reach camp, I put my weapons belt immediately around my waist. They could be planning a surprise attack any minute now. I have to be prepared.

But when I finally force myself to calm at least a little and look at my surroundings, I see that Athos, d’Artagnan, and Porthos are asleep, and Aramis is in the process of lighting the fire. ‘I’ll be making breakfast in a minute,’ he says. ‘Do you want some?’

Or he could be planning to kill me on his own. He could be attempting to poison me before any of the others wake up.

‘Absolutely not,’ I snap.

Aramis shrugs. ‘All right then. Your choice.’

He doesn’t sound particularly disappointed that I turned down his fish. Maybe he has other ideas. Maybe they’re going to kill me when we get to Orléans. What if this whole mission is a trick? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. There are so many people who want my head; maybe the Musketeers are some of these people. It’s a trap and I’ve walked straight into it. There’s nothing I can do to get out.

Aramis was right. It’s four against one. There is no way for me to kill all of them and get out alive. I am trapped.

Aramis cooks the fish and begins eating it. As he’s doing so, he shakes each Musketeer awake. Athos, halfway through his food, says, ‘Did the Phantom already eat?’

‘ _He_ isn’t hungry,’ says Aramis, with a bite to his tone. At first I am surprised that he has kept his word. But I understand. Aramis has respect.

There is no place for respect in this world. Nobody has respect for others. Nobody has respect for me. I am an assassin. I kill people. There is no respect for those who murder. We are merciless, ruthless and dangerous. We are monsters.

 _I_ am a monster.


	3. Orléans

We reach Orléans at midday. We dismount and walk our horses into the city. By the sounds of things, the revolt started in the town square, where they hanged a Lord and his two sons. I can hear gunshots ringing out through the town.

A man, obviously the Captain of the guards here, rushes up to us. ‘If you kill the leader, they’ll surrender,’ he says urgently. ‘If you go to the roof of the town hall you’ll be sure to get a clear shot. But they’re guarding all the important buildings in the city. The town hall is full of revolutionists.’

‘Show us the way there and we’ll see what we can do,’ says Athos. The Captain shows us first to the stables, where we leave our horses with a servant. Then he guides us cautiously through the back streets of Orléans and points to a tall white building. The town hall is guarded both at the front and the back by revolutionists wearing the same red, white and blue badges. They are armed with borrowed and possibly stolen weapons that look to be in a variety of conditions. Some of their swords look old and battered, and there is one at the front of the town hall with a bayonet that looks like it’s seen better days. All in all, I count four revolutionists guarding the front of the town hall, and three guarding the back.

‘They are heavily guarded inside,’ says the Captain. ‘There are more than a hundred of them positioned around the town, and at least fifty inside this building. Some of them have taken the nobles here as hostage.’

‘Inside their own homes?’ I ask. ‘Or have they taken them to a hideout?’

‘I am not sure,’ admits the Captain. ‘The revolutionists are guarding the houses of the nobles, but they also have a hideout that is fiercely guarded. Where are your others?’

‘What others?’ asks Aramis. ‘Treville has only sent us.’

‘Treville has only sent—’ The Captain growls. ‘Five Musketeers and fifty guards will not be enough to kill the revolutionists! And _he_ isn’t even a Musketeer!’

‘No,’ I say, my voice deathly calm, ‘but I _am_ an assassin. I haven’t failed an assignment yet, and I shall not fail one now.’

The Captain is at a loss of what to say. He opens his mouth, and finally he utters some useful words. ‘I will get the guards ready. What do you propose?’

‘Surprise is key,’ I say quickly. Athos and Porthos look ready to interrupt, but Aramis looks at me with interest. ‘If we plan a surprise attack, we will be at an advantage. If we have three groups ready – one to kill the revolutionists in the town, one to take them from the back entrance of the town hall, and one to kill those at the front – they will be overpowered. We will attack them from all sides.’

The Captain nods, clearly unable to come up with a better plan, and directs us back to the Garrison, where his guards are waiting. If the numbers are correct, we are severely outnumbered.

‘What the _Hell_ was that?’ hisses Athos.

‘ _That_ ,’ I say, ‘was a plan, which was a damn sight better than what you were thinking. I will not fail. Whatever trap you are trying to pull me into, I will not fall into it. Now, Porthos, my dagger, if you please. We have a job to do, and I’m going to do it, even if you aren’t.’

Porthos slowly hands over the dagger, which I quickly snatch from him and shove in my weapons belt. Then, much to my surprise, Aramis steps forward. ‘If you’re doing this, then I am too,’ he says. ‘Have you forgotten the Musketeer motto?’

‘But he’s not even a Musketeer!’ argues Athos. He’s quite right. I’m not a Musketeer, and I never will be.

‘But Treville _entrusted_ us to care for him,’ replies Aramis. ‘And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to face Treville if we come back with a _dead body_!’

‘Treville’d be furious,’ agrees d’Artagnan. I try not to smile beneath my hood. ‘And besides, you wouldn’t be saying that if it was me. You always had my back, even before I became a Musketeer.’

Porthos sighs. ‘The kid’s got a point, Athos. One for all …’

Athos looks more than irritated. ‘Very well then. Let’s all go and get killed.’

‘Great!’ D’Artagnan grins. ‘I’m glad we’re all agreeing with one another!’ I almost laugh at the blatant sarcasm. Oh, d’Artagnan, you make me love you more and more each day. If only you knew …

I repeat my plan to the guards, who give a quick show of understanding. We break up into three groups. I am tempted to split the Musketeers apart, but what I said is true: I haven’t failed an assignment yet, and I do not plan to fail this one.

‘And what about you?’ asks Aramis.

‘I’ll be on my own, of course,’ I reply. ‘I will never work with any of you. I’m an assassin, not a Musketeer. Now, Athos, you can be in charge of getting everyone into shape. I will meet you near the town hall.’

‘But what are you doing?’ asks Athos.

‘As if I’d tell _you_.’

I turn and stride across the Garrison, pulling my hood down my face so that I cannot be recognised. I take a left turn down an alley. I was in Orléans very many years ago, before I came to Paris. I know these back streets well.

I smile to myself upon spotting a small, skinny boy – possibly a servant who has escaped from his master’s home in search of somewhere safe. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘you couldn’t perhaps do me a favour, could you?’

The boy folds his arms stubbornly, just as I expected. ‘No.’

‘Hmm, really? Not even if I say I will give you a sou for your troubles?’

The little boy is tempted now. He considers my offer for a few moments before he answers, ‘OK then. I guess I’ll help you.’

‘Very good; very good.’ I take the boy’s hand very firmly before slipping the sou into his pocket. Little boys, especially poor ones, I find to be incredibly _slippy_. This one will not get away. ‘It is not a very hard job. All you have to do is pretend to be my son, and do everything I ask of you. Understood?’

‘Yes, _madame_ ,’ says the boy quietly.

‘Now, that isn’t how you address your _mother_ , is it, _chéri_?’

‘No, _mamma_ ,’ says the boy, and I almost smile. Yes, this boy _is_ a servant. I doubt he would be so obedient if he weren’t.

‘Come along, Barnabé,’ I say sharply, using the first French name I can think of. I half-drag the child through the alleys until we come close to the square. ‘Be quiet,’ I instruct, and the boy hushes quieter than I thought humanly possible. It _is_ possible, though; I have done it. But I have never seen another child do so.

I can clearly see the head of the revolutionists – no older than twenty; God bless his soul – firing his musket in the air. At this rate, he’ll have no bullets left … unless those are blanks, and he has the real bullets on him somewhere. I’m not sure where the Musketeers and the guards are. They are probably at the town hall now, but since the square isn’t nearby, I have no way of telling. I will just have to risk it.

I jab the little boy roughly in the ribs. ‘Look frightened,’ I command sharply. ‘Act like your whole family’s been murdered.’

The little boy’s bottom lip trembles. Hm. He’s a good actor. He could have me fooled if I weren’t in on this act.

Slowly I put my hand to the musket on my weapons belt, which is hidden by my green cloak, and pull it away, lest the boy notices.

I could shoot him, if I were a little closer. Or I could play this act a little longer and get close enough to stab him with my dagger. What would be the point of paying the boy if I just shot the revolutionist now?

Cautiously, I step out into the square, the boy hot at my heels. ‘Help!’ I cry, my voice shaking. ‘Help, please!’ I make my way towards the head revolutionist, who has stopped firing. I look around fearfully, noting that there are five other revolutionists guarding the square at its main entrances and exits. They haven’t thought about the alleys. I brush my hand against my cloak, where I can feel my musket and four throwing knives against my fingertips.

The head revolutionist eyes the boy and I with growing concern. As if on cue, the child whimpers, ‘ _Mamma_ , I want to go home.’ He leans his head against my leg; he is tall enough that he reaches my waist. I know the exact moment that he realises I am carrying weapons; his eyes must widen in surprise but he says nothing. Good boy.

I move a little closer to the revolutionist, my body angled so that we are almost touching, and inconspicuously I close my free hand around my dagger. Still looking him in the eye, I pull it free from my belt and swiftly lodge the dagger in his stomach.

‘Run,’ I hiss to the boy, pulling the dagger from the revolutionist’s stomach. I have no time to see if the boy has gotten away safely. I let the body fall to the floor, immediately throwing a knife at one of the other revolutionists. It lodges itself in his forehead, and he drops to the floor, blood spewing from the wound. I throw another knife, this one also lodging in one of the revolutionists’ foreheads. Two down; three to go. I pull out my musket, already loaded and prepared for this. The third revolutionist goes down.

Burning pain flares up in my stomach, and I swear under my breath. Blood is seeping from a wound close to my hips.

Someone’s just _shot_ me.

I force myself to ignore the pain, and I fire again. One left. I pull a knife from my weapons belt and throw. The final revolutionist gives a scream of pain and falls.

All clear. I clean my dagger and put it back in its sheath. The musket goes back into its holster. Then I retrieve the three knives, clean them, and put them back where they belong. I make my way through the alleys as fast as the pain in my abdomen will let me. Every step brings burning pain, but I keep going. I have been through worse. I have had terrible things happen to me, and being shot by some revolutionist is not the worst.

The revolutionists outside the town hall are dead. Good. This means the Musketeers are doing their job. I step over the corpses, biting firmly on my bottom lip as another wave of pain washes over me. When this is over, I can take care of my wound. The revolutionists will surrender when they realise their leader is dead.

There is a singular flight of stairs leading to the next floor of the town hall, and I climb that with very little difficulty. I can hear the clashing of swords; they are here somewhere. I pull out my musket, prepared to attack if I come across any of the revolutionists.

I follow the sound of fighting through the building. They have already killed the revolutionists on the first floor, so they must be on the second. These stairs are a little more difficult to climb, but I am persistent. If I were to let the Musketeers die, the blame would be on me. Treville would have me hanged, as would many others.

Besides, d’Artagnan’s with them. If d’Artagnan were to die, I would never forgive myself. That’d be someone else I’ve let die.

I force myself up the last step and around the corner, where ten revolutionists are fighting the four Musketeers as well as three guards. I load my musket and fire. One of the revolutionists crumples to the floor, his blood soaking the carpet. What a shame. It was a nice pattern.

‘Where are the others?’ I ask. The lack of guards concerns me.

Athos is surprised for half a second before he says, ‘They ran.’

‘Cowards!’ I hiss, and fire again. Another revolutionist goes. The duke might need to buy a new carpet for this floor. ‘Your leader is dead, you fools!’ I cry to the remaining eight revolutionists. ‘Fall back and we may spare your lives!’

All four Musketeers stare at me in surprise. The revolutionists stop fighting, just for a moment. Then one raises his sword—

‘D’Artagnan!’ I swear my heart almost stops. Thanks to my warning, d’Artagnan jumps out of the way just in time, and sends the tip of his sword through the revolutionist’s chest. I aim my musket and fire at another. Athos is quick to react, slicing another revolutionist’s stomach. The other five look frightened now; they’re huddled together like penguins. I can scarcely tell one revolutionist from the other. I reload my musket and, aiming directly at the centre of the huddle, pull the trigger. Two of the revolutionists sink to the floor, writhing in pain. They’re not dead, but what does it matter when they are defeated?

The other three are shaking, and slowly they raise both hands in surrender. I smile in satisfaction. ‘Take them back to the Garrison,’ I say. ‘It’s over.’

As I take several steps forward, the adrenaline seems to have worn off. Pain shoots through my abdomen, and instinctively I grip the closest thing I can for support, which just so happens to be Porthos’s arm. ‘Sauveterre,’ he says in alarm, alerting the other three Musketeers. I try to avoid putting my hand to my wound, but it’s too late; I’m already touching it gingerly. My hand comes away bloody.

‘You’ve bin shot,’ states Porthos. ‘Alright, we’ve gotta get ‘im to the Garrison. Get someone to look at ‘im.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ I say quickly, forcing a smile.

‘Nonsense,’ says Athos. ‘That could get nasty. It needs looking at immediately.’

I stumble suddenly, and Porthos’s large hands reach for me. My eyes feel heavy and my head is fuzzy. No. I need to stay awake. I need to get the bullet out. Nobody else can do it but me. If they were to find out—

‘Take off the ‘ood, Athos. Yeah, thassit.’ My eyes open blearily. Did I fall unconscious? What’s going on? ‘An’ then the doublet an’ shirt, alright?’ That’s Porthos’s voice.

‘No!’ I say quickly, my voice low and weak. ‘What …?’

‘We’re going to remove the bullet and stitch up the wound,’ says Athos. I groan. I can feel them taking off my clothes and I want to make them stop, but I feel too weak to move. It feels like I am burning.

‘Bindings, too?’ asks Athos.

My blood runs cold. ‘No!’

‘Yeah, take ‘em off,’ says Porthos. ‘’He’ll find it easier to breathe.’

The fire is licking at my feet and palms, finding its way in and leaving me open, weak and vulnerable. No. No. I am weak; I am open. If they find out … My head buzzes and my eyes shut. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. I am falling, falling under.

It’s not over.

It’s never over.


End file.
